


The Erotic Adventures of Arthur Gonthor

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Death, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Sexual Content, Fae & Fairies, Humor, Light-Hearted, Multi, Multiple Endings, Oral Sex, Silly, Stuffing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: This fic is playing with a Choose Your Own Ending story of sorts, where you, the reader, can choose the twists, turns and erotic tumbles of the great prince, Arthur Gonthor. Travelling through the wilderness and dungeons, you can send him to kiss tavern wenches, be buggered behind castle walls, or be quite ravished by groups of forest elves; this is all without taking into account ridiculous acts of violence and dreadful deaths, of course.There are different paths and endings to this story, so you can play multiple times to approach different ends - some of them are gory, some of them are filthy, and it's down to the reader to decide exactly which one Prince Arthur deserves.This fic is continuously under construction; as time goes on, more endings and branches off will be added to Ao3, meaning that if you play one day and return a month later, there may be wholly new paths for you follow! Would recommend showing Chapter by Chapter instead of showing the whole work.





	1. Start

**Author's Note:**

> **Who is Arthur Gonthor?**
> 
> Prince Arthur Eldertree of Gonthor is the seventh child of his father, King George. Preceded by his six sisters, he's never going to inherit the throne, and so he spends his time adventuring far and wide, completing quests, slaying monsters and titillating men and women in every place he goes to.
> 
> Arthur's a muscular, tall man in his late twenties, with short, blond hair and brown eyes flecked with green. He's arrogant, tended to talking smoothly and he loves all things decadent.
> 
> Bring him sex, fights or a sticky end, the choice is up to you!
> 
> **The Setting**
> 
> Prince Arthur is a character on a world called the Dragonplanet, which is the setting in some of my existing stories and many currently planned. It's a fantasy world overrun with faeries, prosperous monarchies and dragons - you can decide for yourself which of those is least realistic.
> 
> Prince Arthur is the prince of the Bright Kingdom of Gonthor, but for now he adventures in one of the lost kingdoms no longer ruled by anyone at all: the Dimmed Kingdom of Gros.
> 
> Gros is ruled by no queen, no king and no one else, and is ungoverned and untaxed. As well as playing host to all manner of abandoned castles, ruins, enchanted swamps and faerie coves, outcasts of all kinds live and work in the area.
> 
> Our story begins in The Hooked Fish, an inn a few miles into Gros' borders, with Arthur and his faithful manservant, Elgar, fit to set out on Arthur's new adventure to explore the enchanted castle in the centre of the Dimmed Kingdom.

Arthur watches his manservant in the mirror on the wall, watching as the younger man combs Arthur's hair quite into place. He's incredibly careful and  _particular_  about how he does his new master's hair, and rightly so. Other adventurers and knights and the like, Arthur knows, put on ghastly helmets to go off and into battle, but he'd never muss up his hair so.

One can hardly paint a picture of one's dashing grace and skill in battle when one can't describe the wondrous curls to one's tremendous hair, after all.

"All done, sire," Elgar says quietly, with a respectful nod of his head. He's not especially pretty - Elgar is square in the shoulders and square in the face, broad and with a little fat to his muscle. He's decent-looking though, and he's a good deal more alive than some of Arthur's previous manservants.

They just seem to go off and die a lot, rather, so he mustn't let himself get too attached to this new one. It's rather a joy he isn't too pretty, though - the pretty ones just look all that much sadder when they get killed one way or another.

"Go pay and see to the horses, then, Elgar," Arthur says airily, admiring his own chin and eyes and hair. "I'll be down soon-ish."

"Yes, sire," Elgar agrees, and he rushes over to the door, bustling out and closing the door behind him. Arthur stands, putting his hands on his hips, and pats the sword in scabbard at his waist.

####  [Look around the inn room.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922986)

####  [Go downstairs.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923007)


	2. The Hooked Fish

Arthur glances around the room he'd slept in the night before, gaze detached. It's a cosy little room, simply furnished with a thickly padded bed, a broad fireplace and a wardrobe. On the little nightstand beside the bed rests a burnt-out candle, and at the bottom of the bed is Arthur's own satchel.

There are supplies of food, water and such in his horse's saddle bags, but in the satchel is some gold, a few crests indicating a taken quest and his paperwork. The bag is enchanted to avoid water damage and the like, and it's not too heavy, but he will still have Elgar bring it downstairs. Why should he do it himself?

Arthur steps to the half-open window, peering out to the ground below. He's on the third storey of the building, under the slanted ceiling of The Hooked Fish's roof, and below the village is bathed in a very soft, pink-tinged gold: the sun is rising, and the second moon is beginning to disappear below the horizon. Midday will be marked by the rise of the third.

A little snow marks the ground, printed by steps in places and beginning to melt away into sleet and slight frost: none of the village shops and stores appear to be open, and the streets beneath him are quite empty.

The village of Wenk is placid and small, and they'd ridden into it the night before. It doesn't exactly inspire the sense of adventure Arthur approaches these expeditions of his for, but it's just a place to stay until they keep on riding.

He'll find something truly adventurous soon enough.

####  [Leave via the door and the stairs.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923007)

####  [Leave via the window. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923022)


	3. The Hooked Fish

The tavern is almost entirely empty when Arthur walks downstairs, the chairs neatly set under the tables around the room, the fire newly lit. Last night it hadn't been especially busy, because Wenk's a small village and it's too close to the kingdom's border for many people to want to live there, but there had been four or five tables filled.

The little pub downstairs is traditionally decorated, the walls built of solid, deep wood pinned with various pieces of embroidery in petite frames, and with magical talismans hung on every panel. Each of them is uniformly carved into round, cleanly cut pieces of wood or stone, hanging from loops of coloured ribbon, and he recognizes the craftsmanship.

Using magic isn't an easy discipline for anyone, even the people who tend naturally to it, but enchantment doesn't require anyone to actually cast a spell or a charm. It just needs the right runes to be carved, and for the right well of magic to be found.

In the little backwards villages and out-of-the-way places, he sees a lot of talismans like these ones.

Arthur looks from the talismans to the mugs hung over the bar, to the barrels stacked behind it, and remembers how three young men had crowded around a card game at the bar, the busy bustle of the bar behind them completely immaterial to their concentration.

The tavern seems strange now, virtually empty as it is.

Behind the bar is a pretty blonde with a heavy bosom and a gloriously low-cut blouse, perhaps twenty-two years old. She smiles at Arthur as he comes down the stairs, and he smiles right back. Elgar will have paid her, but it always serves to be friendly.

To the side of the room is a ceiling-high shelf a man about Arthur's own age is stacking with jars and boxes and bottles. As Arthur scans over him, he turns, offering a flirtatious smirk, and returns to his work.

The door is slightly ajar, and from outside comes a soft breeze, but it isn't too cold, and Arthur doesn't mind the temperature.

####  [Chat to the tavern girl.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923067)

####  [Go outside.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923220)

####  [Chat to the tavern boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923100).


	4. Arthur Perishes!

Arthur peers out of the window again and, with a decisive nod of his head, he bends his head and puts one of his legs out of the window, straddling the base of the frame for a moment before throwing himself away from the building and down to the snowy ground below.

He lands on his back with a sickening  _crack_  of sound, and he's struck by the sudden warmth around his lower back. Oh, dear. He's landed on a stray fence pole bent on the ground - it's pierced him right through. Quite sickening, really.

"Prince Arthur!" Elgar yells, horrified, and he runs and stands over his master, clutching desperately at his own hands. "Why ever did you do that!?"

Arthur peers up at him, realizing he doesn't actually have an answer. Agony runs through his back, heated, electric pain singing through the torn skin and flesh and bone beside his spine: he finds that he cannot force his lungs to fill and empty. Why ever  _did_  he jump?

"I don't know, Elgar," Arthur says faintly, his own words coming breathily in a tired, whimpered wheeze, and he lets his head drop back on the snow. Rather an awkward way to die, actually, he thinks as his eyes close and his head drops back into the pillow of snow beneath him. He's glad he's not the one who'll have to explain it.

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922986)

 

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	5. The Hooked Fish

She's a pretty girl, short and widely busty, her blonde hair hanging down in gently teased waves around her shoulders: she offers Arthur a beam as he comes forwards, flicking her head coquettishly and making her curls bounce. Unfortunately, she doesn't move enough to affect her breasts with the same movement.

"My name's Layla, sire," she says lightly, her voice soft and with a come-hither tone to it. Her gaze flickers greedily over his clothes and his body - he knows that he's handsome, but it is so pleasant to be visually appreciated now and then. "I do hope you enjoyed your stay." Arthur gives a little chuckle and a nod of his head.

"Oh, it was very cosy, particularly with my manservant next door." She nods her head, and then she teeters back and forth on her heels as she looks up at him from behind the bar's shining-clean counter. With every lean forwards, her breasts are put tantalizingly on better show. What a  _lovely_  girl.

"Is there anything else I can, ah," her gaze flickers downwards as she leans forwards, and then flickers back to his face on the back swing. " _Help_  you with?"

####  ["Oh, yes, though we'd better talk about it upstairs."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923085)

####  ["No thanks, Layla. That's everything."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923094)


	6. The Hooked Fish

"Upstairs?" Layla repeats sweetly, and then she gives a pleasant little bob of her pretty head, stepping out from behind the tavern and gesturing for the prince to follow her up the stairs. He follows after her readily, lip twitching as he watches her arse underneath her skirt.

"Something in your room, yes, sire?"

"Precisely, Layla," Arthur agrees, and as soon as the door closes behind them he leans down, letting her reach him for a kiss. He pushes her back onto the bed, kissing her and carding his hand through her hair as he settles himself to kneel between her legs.

"You're very handsome for a prince," Layla says against his lips.

"You meet many princes?" Arthur asks, letting his hands drop between her legs and reach up under her skirt. He grasps at the waistline of her panties, pulling them down around her knees, and she lets out a little giggle.

"Only a few," Layla says with a satisfied sigh as Arthur pushes up her skirt and ducks his head between her legs. The hair there is neatly trimmed, and he dips to draw his tongue over her lips, parting his mouth over her clit and then  _sucking_.

Layla lets out a gasp of sound, grasping at the sheets underneath her and spreading her thighs wider: she cants her hips up, biting her own lip. She lets out a short whimper as Arthur draws the flat of his tongue over her slit, feeling the wetness beginning to gather there.

Moaning as Arthur thrusts his tongue inside her, Layla tangles her hand in his hair, arching her back off the bed and squirming under Arthur's mouth. He draws back slightly, pressing a finger into her as he flicks his tongue over the bud of her clit again; the spare hand not grasping tightly at Arthur's hair thumbs over her breast.

Arthur presses a second finger into her, scissoring them gently in the slick wet, and he sucks on her clit again to elicit that same loud whine. He begins to thrust his fingers as he works his tongue over the sensitive flesh, licking and suckling at the edges of her labia as best he can.

He holds her steady with his one hand, but she all but writhes beneath him, and when she comes he feels her soak his fingers and hand with it, her moans stifled into her arm.

Arthur stands back, looking down at her: Layla's hair is a pretty mess around her face, her cheeks red, her eyes wide and close to watering. Her clothes are wrinkled all over, panties still around her ankles, and as he looks down at her heavily breathing form he licks the back of his hand, making her let out a short groan.

"You'll not meet a prince like me again," Arthur promises, and he wipes his hand on the bedsheets before he heads downstairs.

####  [Head out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923220)

 


	7. The Hooked Fish

Layla's flirtatious smile drops away from her mouth, faltering for a moment before it returns. Her lips remain plump and curved into a small, professional smile, but she no longer leans forwards and pulls at the collar of her blouse to display the bosom underneath it.

"Oh, alright, sire," Layla says, her disappointment a quiet but audible undertone. "I do hope we'll see you again."

Arthur grins at her, giving her a playful wink, and with that he turns away.

####  [Head out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923220)


	8. The Hooked Fish

The man glances around when Arthur makes his way forwards, stacking up his bottles and jars upon the shelves. They're very neat, very symmetrical, but the man is obviously not very passionate about it. He gives Arthur a flash of a grin.

"Might I interest you in a herbal tonic, sire? Perhaps a balm, or a jar of pickled onions?" His tone is a parody of good customer service, wry humour dripping from every word, and Arthur huffs out a dry laugh.

"If only you'd had some pickled kippers. I'd have bought those."

Everywhere he goes people know Arthur to be a prince, but by no means is he treated with the constant bowing and fussing and ridiculous subservience that his sisters are, or that other princes are. People consider him an exciting legend, and usually have more interest in talking to him than scraping the ground in front of him with their noses; this man doesn't mind joking with him, and that's precisely how Arthur prefers it.

"Sire, might you like to see some of the, ah, extended produce? I'd have to take you into the backroom, of course..." As he trails off, his gaze lowers demonstratively over Arthur's body.

####  ["Oh, yes, of course. I'm in need of a good piece of produce."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923163)

####  ["Perhaps on the journey home."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923196)


	9. The Hooked Fish

"Right away, sir," the man says politely, with a little bow of his head, and he steps backwards and pushes open a door into a darkened room, gesturing for Arthur to follow him. Arthur steps smartly in: the store cupboard is slightly chilly but well-lit, likely with enchantments buried in the stone walls to keep the contents from rotting. "I'm Kit, sire."

" _Kit_? Short for Christopher?"

"I'm not short for nothing, sire." Kit unbuttons his trousers, looking at Arthur with a slick, self-satisfied smirk, and then he says, "If sire might  _please_ , take your trousers down."

"Take down  _yours_ ," Arthur challenges, and the other man shows his teeth as he grins.

"Of course, sire," he says lightly, and he turns around and puts his hands flat against the wall, bending over slightly as he does so. The brown fabric of his trousers settles at his lower thighs, bunching in place over his knees, and Arthur reaches forwards, drawing his thumb between Kit's buttocks and feeling the wetness there.

"What's this?" Arthur asks, and Kit laughs, unabashed.

"My morning's glory."

Arthur unbuttons himself, drawing himself out, and he lines himself up at the broader man's backside. He presses himself in with a low, pleased sound, pushing up Kit's shirt in order to draw his mouth over the flesh of his spine. Kit shivers beneath his lips, pressing himself back and onto Arthur's cock.

"Feels a lot like glory to me," Arthur agrees, thrusting himself forwards, and Kit groans a little. Arthur moves his hips fast, settling into a good, quick rhythm as he touches over Kit's hips and grasps tightly at the meat of his arse. Kit whines.

Arthur reaches underneath him, grasping around the other man's cock and twisting his hand over the flesh, thumbing over the wetness at the head of it, and when Kit comes it's with a short, whined little noise. He clenches tightly around Arthur, and Arthur finishes himself off, drawing back and buttoning his trousers up again.

"See you, sire," Kit says, drawing Arthur into a quick kiss as he stands up straight, and then he smiles. "Do come back this way when you return, if it suits you."

Arthur laughs. "Oh, I'm sure it will, Kit. I'm sure it will."

####  [Get on with the day's business.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923220)


	10. The Hooked Fish

The man lets out a wistful sigh, leaning back against the shelf for a moment, and he meets Arthur's face with unwavering, green eyes, his lips lightly pressed together. "Of course, sire," he says, a vague weight of hope in the words, but without any real conviction.

"I'm Kit, if you do choose to return. You can always ask for me."

Arthur nods his head, and turns away from him.

####  [Head outside.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923220)


	11. The Village of Wenk

Wenk is a pretty village - the sort of thing that might be painted on a little canvas for an old woman's kitchen. It's quaint, small and old-fashioned, and surprisingly well-kept for a village outside of a working kingdom's borders. Gros is no-man's land, even if it's well-occupied, and Arthur knows that as they get further into the country, the villages will get less and less traditional and more and more chaotic.

All of the village windows are dim and grey, none of them lit with candles or magical lights, and with the sun just beginning to rise the village itself is hardly bright yet. It's the sort of romantic place a girl would love in summertime, Arthur expects. He'll have to keep that in mind for future reference.

Arthur's boots make a satisfying crunch in the left-over snow as he makes is way towards the stables, and he dips his head slightly under the hanging chives in the doorway before walking to Elgar. His manservant is adjusting the strap on one of the horse's saddlebags, and Arthur watches him for a second before he claps his hand on the other man's back and catches his attention.

"Sire!" Elgar says, offering a shy smile and a nod of his square head, and he seems to hesitate for a moment before asking, "Are you, ah--  _sure_ of this adventure, sire? All alone?"

Elgar tends to worry. It's not yet as grating as he is has no doubt it will become.

####  ["I won't be alone, Elgar. I'll have you."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923343) 

####  ["I'll be fine, Elgar, so long as you stop fussing."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/439233647)


	12. The Village of Wenk

Elgar seems to somehow stumble without moving his feet at all, peering at Arthur with his eyes going wide and his lips parting. There's a silent pause between them, and then a soft, pink flush begins to creep over Edgar's cheeks as he keeps his gaze on Arthur's face.

He opens his mouth wider, closes it, bites his lip. His cheeks are beginning to go a deep red, and Arthur can't help but enjoy the show of colour.

"O-oh, sire," Elgar says, obviously flustered, and then he rushes from the stables and all but runs back toward The Hooked Fish. Arthur is beginning to suspect he's quite attracted to his master - most people are, of course, but it's not any less delighting.

Besides, it might be fun to seduce him, if the right opportunity presents itself.

Arthur smirks at the prospect as he touches gently over Pennyflower's braided, white mane, and pulls himself astride her back.

####  [Ride out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923403)


	13. The Village of Wenk

Elgar falters, apparently struck by Arthur's reply, and then he bows his head, staring at his own feet for a few long moments. He seems terribly upset, and Arthur can't help but raise a sardonic eyebrow.

"Sorry, sire," Elgar says, and Arthur rolls his eyes as he runs from the stables and heads back towards the inn. What an idiot.

Shaking his head, Arthur pulls his horse towards him, setting himself astride her back: Pennyflower is a loyal steed, and has lasted so much longer than any of his manservants ever has. She truly is a darling girl. 

####  [Ride out. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923403)


	14. The Wilds of Gros

It doesn't take too long for Elgar to return to the stables with Arthur's pack to hand, and he passes it up to Arthur where he straddles his horse. It's an enchanted bag, made to be featherlight and to accommodate more inside itself than it really ought, and Arthur straps it a little behind his thigh.

"Come on, Elgar," Arthur orders cleanly, and Elgar pulls himself up and onto his own horse. She's not a pretty thing like Pennyflower is, broad, brown and dappled with white, but she's a good horse.

The ride out from Wenk isn't at all hard. Within an hour there's not a speck of snow on the grassy ground around the path they're riding on, which is rough and muddied at the edges; out here in Gros, roads are barely upkept, and they're only trodden down by the people who walk on them.

"Have you been to Gros before, sire?" Elgar asks curiously, leaning back for a moment in order to adjust the fabric of his coat, and Arthur glances at him momentarily, shaking his hair in the breeze.

"No, not before," Arthur answers. "I've travelled through Kariana and Palatia, the other two Dimmed Kingdoms. Beautiful women are to be found in both, and handsome men." Elgar lets out a sort of high noise, a strangled keen, and then he clears his throat.

After that, they travel for a few hours in utter silence, and Arthur can't help but be somewhat satisfied by it. He rather does enjoy flustering creatures like Elgar. The path begins to drop off after a while, and soon enough they're riding over grassy hills and through the underbrush of little glens beside the river. As they make their way up a tall hill, Arthur leans back in the saddle, patting Pennyflower's neck in a gentle fashion as they come to a stop.

"Swampland," Arthur says, twisting his features somewhat and looking out over the valley beneath them. There are few swamps in the more inhabited parts of country: any monarch would call in sorcerers to adjust the terrain. They're treacherous places, and all sorts of monstrous things flourish in them. The grove is thick and suddenly green, and he can see the watery green of the thick marsh underneath the tree leaves. "We've got two choices, then. We can go out the west side of, avoid the swamp completely and go beside that forest there, or we can go east and around the-"

Glancing at Elgar, he sees that the other man looks positively spellstruck, peering down at the swamp down the hill.

"Elgar?"

"They say that in swampland, in the heart of the swamp, plum trees grow. The faeries who engage in their growth kiss them every dawn and every dusk, and the plums grow thick and plump with it. They taste better than anything, so I've been told."

Arthur peers at him, rather taken aback by the sudden foray into poetry and country myth.

####  [Go and explore the swamp for these faerie plums.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923424)

####  [Ignore Elgar's nonsense and ride to the West, by the forest there.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923556)


	15. The Swamp

Arthur dismounts his horse, patting Pennyflower's side and murmuring for her to go with Elgar. The idea of these plums is quite a beguiling one, and he's never been the sort of man to give up a challenge once it's issued. Besides, what sort of hedonist can refuse an offer of such magical pleasures? "Ride a little out again and set tie the horses in place. Sit down for a while, read a book or something. I shan't be long."

Elgar stares at him, his eyes wide and his mouth wide open - he seems to be stranded somewhere in between horror and utmost delight. "Sire? You don't want me to come with you?"

"Why in the Gods' names would I want that?" Arthur scoffs, beginning to make his way down the hillside. "Off you go, Elgar! I shall be back!" Elgar says something Arthur doesn't pay attention to, and Arthur keeps walking down and down. It's warmer down here in the valley, and he expects it's due to the magic that draws up through the water of places like this.

Once he's under the cover of the trees, he begins to take his steps more carefully, dancing down heavy logs and doing his best to keep to rock and land rather than dropping himself into the thigh-high water around his feet. As he walks forwards it gets dark, but he doesn't allow himself to be put off.

After an hour - or perhaps two - of walking, the water has soaked into Arthur's boots, and he keeps his gaze on a raised platform of dry earth a little while ahead: there he can rest a few moments and empty the mud out of his boots.

His eye is caught, though, by a bobbing light out in the darkness, like a lantern held in a shaking hand.

"Hello!?" he calls out, but no one calls back: the lantern simply nods a little in the distance.

####  [Follow the light off and into the darkness despite the wet.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923436)

 

####  [Go and rest on the merciful dry of the island.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923445)


	16. A Nasty End!

Calling "hello!" again garners no more response, and Arthur begins to walk off and towards the glowing, yellow light hovering in the darkness. His boots make a thick, wet sound as they press into the mud and the water stretching out between him and the light, and he clenches his teeth.

It's almost unbearably hot under the canopy of the trees now, humidity hitting him in the face with every new step he takes forwards.

The lantern stays still, not hoving further off into the darkness, and Arthur squints as he comes closer, trying to make out the skinny outline holding the light aloft. He stumbles, though, dropping to his knees into a deep hole in the land, falling with a muddy splash.

He stares up as he tries to drag himself out of the thick, brown bog he's fallen into, and he realizes with a cold horror that he's not looking at someone walking through the dark.

The thing's skin is deep red, cracked open in places and revealing a rough, leathery black underneath it. Its eyes are wide as saucers and an ugly, creamy white, obscenely still where they're set in its face, and in its wide open mouth glows the lantern he'd thought it was holding.

There's a sound, a strange, ratchety crackle, and it takes Arthur a moment or two to realize the demon's laughing at him before a sudden hand clasps around his ankle. He tries to scream, but water swallows him as he's dragged down under.

Will'o the wisps.

He's been drowned by a fucking hinkypunk.

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923424)

 

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	17. The Swamp

Although the lantern swings in the darkness a distance off, beckoning Arthur towards it, he ignores it and makes his way towards the little hill of dry earth, pulling himself up and onto it and dropping himself down into the mud. He undoes his boots, tipping out the excess water and sighing at the wetness of his socks. He wishes he'd taken a magician as a manservant, this time - he would've been able to get them dried.

He'll turn back soon, he expects - there's no sense walking forwards if he's not found the damned tree so far.

Arthur turns his head and, starkly lit by a little sun coming in through the thick canopy of trees over head, he sees it. The plum tree is broad and green and leafy, its branches weighted down by the sheer heft of its blue fruit.

" _Yes!_ " Arthur hisses to himself, and he stands. Finally!

####  [Go off towards the mythical plum tree.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923463)


	18. The Faerie Plum Tree

Arthur moves quickly forwards, doing his best to avoid dipping too much into the water. He skips from one broad stone to the other, then touching onto the ground of the new island. The grass here is lush and brightly green, glowing under the golden light from the parting in the trees as if there's gold in the blades themselves.

The tree is maybe fifteen, twenty feet tall, but the branches hang low with all the fruits packing them. There's no rot on a single one of them, and every single plum is as big as a man's fist, some of them slightly burst at their connection to their tree with juices slowly sliding down their skin.

The bark of the tree is a soft, nutty brown, and Arthur takes a few steps forwards, drawing his fingers slowly over the rough bark and enjoying the texture under his hand; he can feel the magic all around him, electric and more pregnant than it is in the rest of the swamp. It feels like the air after a thunderstorm, and the plums seem to sway despite the lack of a breeze.

Arthur's mouth is watering just looking at the damn things, and better still is the  _smell_ : the plums are sweet and thickly fragrant, and he can almost taste them on his tongue.

He reaches up, and then he hesitates. Should he eat one here, first? He is feeling hungry, and he'd like to rest a little more... But his manservant is waiting, and goodness knows it would be inconvenient if he was killed in Arthur's absence. Who would cook his dinner tonight if Elgar was dead? A magic plum is hardly enough.

####  [Pluck a plum from the tree and eat it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923475)

 

####  [Pick two plums off the tree and take them back to Elgar.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923517)


	19. The Faerie Plum Tree

Elgar will survive another few hours, Arthur expects, and one eaten plum won't cause too much damage to their little schedule. He reaches up, grasping at one of the heavy plums that hasn't yet split, and he barely needs to tug it from the tree - it all but falls right into his hand, beautifully and perfectly ripe.

Arthur sits down on the mercifully dry grass, leaning back against the tree trunk and bringing the blue fruit to his mouth. He inhales deeply, enjoying the way the scent fills his nostrils, and then he bites into the rough-smooth, blue skin.

It's heavenly. He feels like he's ascended to the Palace of the Sun Gods.

He moans around the sweet, wet flesh, juices running in sticky rivulets down the sides of his mouth and gathering at the bottom of his chin, and when he chews it's barely worth doing - the plum seems to melt in his mouth, sinking onto his tongue. He swallows and warmth spreads down his throat and then into his belly. From there, it just radiates out, that beautiful warmth tingling just under his skin and making him close his eyes, his head tipping back to rest against the tree behind him.

He takes another bite, and it's even better than the first one - there's plum juice on his fingers and all over his face, but he simply can't care, can't spare the milliseconds he'd need to brush it away when he can just keep  _eating._

He's been a prince all his life, and never has he tasted true decadence until now.

####  [Keep eating.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923490)


	20. Decadence's End

Arthur takes another bite, and then another, his teeth tearing into the sweet beauty of the thick, sweet fruit. He can't stop himself from sucking desperately around the black stone at the plum's centre, licking the backs of his hands and then his palms. The juice is wonderful, drizzling thickly down his arms and then coming heavy upon his tongue like syrup when he laps atit.

He feels drawn-out and drunk with pleasure, unable to really consider moving as he feels the tremendous warmth and tingle through all his muscles and every inch of his skin; he wants to reach for another plum, but they're so high and he doesn't think he can bring himself to stand.

His prayers are answered.

Another plum is pressed into his hand, and he sighs his relief, bringing it to his lips and biting into it. It's incredible,  _perfect_  as he bites into it and chews and swallows and does it again, feels his teeth rip through the taut flesh of the thing, feel the wonderful flesh give way. There are bodies all around him, naked bodies with bright and luminous skin. Skin that is blue, green, yellow, violet - colours no human or elf is seen with. Faerie colours.

"Arthur," whispers a soft voice in his ear, a beautiful woman with long, flowing white hair and skin the colour of daisy pollen; she draws her mouth over his jaw, suckling away the plum juices clinging to his skin, and he can only lean into her touch.

Dozens of hands are on his body, drawing away his armour and his trousers and his boots - they don't need to undo clasps or work with the shape of his body. With a simple touch, his clothes melt readily away and bare them to the faeries' touches.

He hears them laughing, singing, feels them kiss and lick and caress every inch of his skin, but the only thing that matters is that the next plum is pressed against his fingers and that he can draw it to his mouth.

After the sixth and then the seventh fruit, he knows he should feel full, but he doesn't at all: he wants more,  _craves_  more, and they are merciful, the faeries are merciful, and they give it to him. They give everything to him. Soon, his belly is fat and taut with it, and he stares down at himself, at the rounded paunch to a stomach that was so recently flat and laid neatly over muscle, and he whimpers, knowing that perhaps it should hurt, but it doesn't, it doesn't! He just feels heavy, and more than that, he feels hungry,  _hungry_. How many could he eat, before he would be satisfied? He wants to eat them all.

As he bites into yet another fruit one of them lowers themselves onto his cock - when had he become hard? He doesn't know. It doesn't matter. She has to shove his belly up to reach, and he moans around the fruit in his mouth as she feels her fingers upon the heavy, fruit-fattened flesh. He should like to be rotund with it, should like to be so full he can never so much as move again. 

He moans around the plum in his right hand and sucks at the stone in his left. There are mouths on him, fingers on him, and the wet clench around his cock almost rivals the wet flesh soaking his lips.

He eats and he eats and he eats, barely conscious of when he comes and when another faerie settles in his lap.

He doesn't know how much time passes, how many of the fruits he's eaten, how many nymphs he's fucked, but he lies on his back in the golden light, unable to reach for another plum, unable to move. He feels so very full he's too heavy to shift himself, but he still wants  _more._

"Pretty little prince..." says a soft, echoing voice, and he whines, wants to  _beg._  "It seems you've overeaten." He has. His stomach is huge now, so large he cannot catch a glimpse of his own thighs about its huge curve, and so large he could not hope to move and support its roiling weight. He moans once more, weak, and touches sticky fingers to the swollen surface, taut as a drum skin. 

He closes his eyes, his palms up to the sky as if hoping one of them will take mercy on him again, drop another of those beautiful, heavenly, perfect plums into one of his waiting hands again.

It doesn't happen. What's the point of ever moving again, ever eating again, every living again, if he can't have another of those faerie fruits?

What's the point?

He doesn't, and he lays in his place forevermore. 

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923463)

 

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	21. The Wilds of Gros

Arthur reaches up to the tree, pulling out one beautifully ripe, blue plum and then another; he sets them gently in an outer pocket of his satchel, ensuring they'd not be damaged in the walk back, and then he begins to trek through the swamp again. With no offshoots of exploration or wandering glances, it barely takes him half the time to return the way he'd come, and he begins the walk up the valley hill again.

It had been somewhat cloudy before, not raining but certainly not bright, and now the sun beats down in a warm, wonderful yellow on his back. The third moon, Grayn, is high in the sky, and Arthur looks up at its peach-coloured crust as he walks towards the little place Elgar had made ready for them.

Elgar is settled beside his pack, a book in his lap and a pair of spectacles perched delicately on his square nose. They're circular with very thin, silver rims, and he can't help but be somewhat amused by the sight; he hadn't realized Elgar needed reading glasses.

"Catch!" Arthur says suddenly, and he feigns throwing one of the plums from his satchel pocket: Elgar panics, dropping his book and throwing up his hands to catch a fruit Arthur hadn't yet thrown, falling ungracefully back and onto the grass.

Arthur laughs.

When Elgar sits up and takes off the glasses, putting them in an inner pocket of his jacket, he catches the plum Arthur passes to him, looking at it in honest and obvious wonder. "You found them!"

"I did. Come on, we'll eat them as we ride," Arthur says, pleased with the way Elgar is looking at him in mixed admiration and devotion. He clambers onto Pennyflower's back, settling himself astride her saddle, and he waits for Elgar before they set off again.

He bites into the plum as they begin to ride, sucking at the wet flesh to keep the juices from dripping down his jaw and his lips as he eats. The taste is phenomenal. It's sweet and full of flavour, and he's hums around the plum, chewing and swallowing the bite he'd taken.

"It's good," Arthur says simply, and Elgar nods his eager agreement.

####  [Keep riding.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923556)


	22. The Wilds of Gros

They don't ride for much longer, and soon enough Arthur gives a wave of his hand for Elgar and he to stop short, dismounting their horses in a small clearing amongst a few scattered oak trees. Arthur walks off to pick up a little firewood and kindling as Elgar begins to unpack a little food; there's some dew on the ground, but it's not too difficult to find kindling that's dry enough to be serviceable.

The horses step to drink a little from a brook running through the trees, and he and Elgar both settle back onto the ground. The fire flickers to life with a magic firelighter Arthur keeps to hand, and Elgar lets out a soft sigh at the warmth.

It's not an especially cold day, but the fire is pleasant to have, and they have a few more hours' ride before they reach a village. They settle into silence for a few long minutes, letting their muscles rest, and Arthur elects to break the silence between him and his manservant.

####  ["I wish I could fuck you right now."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923580)

####  ["You look lovely in this light."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923652)


	23. The Wilds of Gros

Elgar chokes out a horrified, strangled noise, dribbling the water he'd been sipping out of his mouth: his eyes are wide, staring at Arthur as he leans back and drops his flask on the ground, wiping his chin and his mouth with the back of sleeve. Terribly  _uncouth_  for his lovely manservant, but with a moment's pause Elgar grasps a handkerchief from his pocket and fixes the mess.

Arthur should never have doubted.

"Er-" Elgar says, and then he abruptly stands, heaving in a shuddering breath. "I should go, er, untether the horses."

"Did you hear what I said, Elgar?"

"Excuse me, sire!" he says desperately, and then he walks off in a hurried, stumbling fashion. He rushes over to where the horses are, beginning to undo their ties and fussing over their saddlebags. With a resigned huff, Arthur stands and follows after him.

The horses drink a little more from the stream running by, and Arthur peers at Elgar, who is focusing on his own feet.

####  [Go in for a kiss.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923601)

####  [Apologize for boldness.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923622)


	24. The Kiss of Death

Arthur catches the other man by the shoulder, affecting him to turn slightly, and with that he steps closer: Elgar stares at him with his eyes fixed on Arthur's face, panic written all over his own features.

But Arthur knows  _precisely_  how to calm him down.

He leans in, pressing his mouth to Elgar's and cupping the back of his head, kissing him hard. Elgar lets out a soft, muffled whimper against Arthur's tongue, leaning in for a just a moment-

And then he suddenly draws back, guilt obvious in his wide eyes and open mouth: when Arthur tries to draw in a second time, Elgar shoves him in the chest, and Arthur loses his balance.

Entirely surprised by the sudden use of physical force by his reluctant companion, Arthur stumbles back and loses his footing on the edge of the stream, hitting the back of his head with a loud, sickening crack on a large rock poking out of the water.

Elgar stares in shock at the silent prince in the water as the water flowing past him turns red.

"Oh, Gods," he whispers, "I've killed him!"

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923556)

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	25. The Wilds of Gros

Arthur reaches out, placing his hand on the other man's broad, square back, and he rubs in a slow circle, drawing a surprised and uncertain glance from him. "My apologies, Elgar," Arthur says lightly. He isn't especially grave in his tone, and he isn't going to offer Elgar the sun and the moons for the mistake of his candour: Elgar will come to his bed on his own terms, soon enough. "I oughtn't have been so bold."

Elgar bites his lip shyly, watching his master for a moment, and then replies, "I merely think it inappropriate, sire, in this place - without even a proper bed--!"

"Of course," Arthur agrees.

"And of course, sire, you're very attractive, very, very--" Elgar is momentarily distracted by the presence of Arthur's pretty, plump lips, which many a man have complimented him on. "Er--"

"I understand," the prince affirms, and he pats Elgar on the back. "Come now, man. Let's be off."

####  [Head out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923736)


	26. The Wilds of Gros

Elgar glances up at the compliment, the kind words having been unexpected, and the smile that curves across his lips is beautiful. It's not beautiful like a pretty girl's smile is - Elgar simply isn't a wide-eyed, round faced little thing like many of them are. He's mostly plain to look at: the smile is beautiful because of the peace in it, Arthur supposes.

He looks like one of the figures painted for a painting on the palace wall of Gonthor.

They settle once more into comfortable silence, and then Elgar shifts a little closer, pulling himself over the grass before plucking a cube of cheese from the board he'd laid out and offering it to his master.

####  [Take the cheese and eat it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923658)

####  [Take Elgar's wrist and kiss him.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923676)


	27. The Wilds of Gros

Arthur takes the cheese delicately from Elgar's broad hand, drawing it as slowly as he can to his lips; he savours the way Elgar's stare weighs on Arthur's scarred but clever fingers as they come to his mouth, adores the way his eyes widen just a tiny bit when Arthur parts his lips wider than necessary to bite into the morsel.

Elgar tears his gaze away, staring off into the distance, and Arthur's lip twitches at the visible sign - a small sign, but a visible one - of the other man's frustration.

Patience can be oh-so-rewarding.

####  [Head out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923736)


	28. The Wilds of Gros

Arthur reaches out as if he truly is going to accept Elgar's offer and pluck the cheese from his palm, but he doesn't do it; he grasps Elgar's wrist, drawing his thumb in a delicate circle over the other man's skin, rubbing under the grey fabric of his long sleeve.

Elgar stares down at Arthur's hand over his own, his gaze glazing over as he sits frozen, made suddenly statue-still; Arthur cannot so much as see Elgar's chest move with his breaths, and Arthur leans forwards, closing part of the gap between them.

He hovers a scarce few inches away from his manservant's parted lips, so close that he can feel the other man's exhalation on his skin when Elgar finally dares to breathe again: he moves no closer, tempting Elgar to close the gap between them, and close it Elgar does.

Elgar's lips touch feather-soft against Arthur's own, tentative and uncertain, but Arthur draws him closer, kissing him soundly and carding the hand not touching Elgar's wrist through his hair. Their lips slide against each other, their eyes closed, and when they draw apart Arthur hears the sigh of pure  _bliss_  that his manservant releases.

And then Arthur leans back, taking the cheese from Elgar's palm and popping it between his lips. "You should go and untether the horses, Elgar. You should take a piss before we head out. We'll be riding until nightfall."

Elgar seems dazed for a few long moments, and then he snaps himself out of his stare into the middle distance, giving a hurried nod before rushing off to the horses. He'll pack up the picnic before they leave.

####  [Follow own advice and step off into the woods.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923697)


	29. Taking The Piss

Arthur steps away from the picnic, moving off and under a nearby thatch of trees and into a little clearing. He stands beside a tall birch tree dappled with the familiar, lemon-yellow dots of pixie footsteps, and he unbuttons his trousers, pulling himself out to relieve himself.

He stops short as he starts the flow, though, leaning down and peering at the grassy ground as he streams against the base of the tree's silvery trunk.

A sharp shard of something greying white pokes up out of the ground, and it doesn't catch the light. He frowns, scanning the ground, and he spies more of the broken, white pieces, realizing what they are with a shock that makes his blood run cold.

Bones scattered on the ground like this won't have been left by pixies or something intelligent. This could only mean--

"Oh, fuck," he mutters, and then yells back, "Elgar! Elgar, there's--" He's cut short by a sudden blow to his back, and he wheezes as he falls forwards, cock dropping out of his hands and piss spattering over the ground.

The ogre grabs him and bites hard into his neck and shoulder, a horrific stench reeking from its yellowing teeth and bright red gums, and Arthur feels hot, thick blood burst from his own vessels and pour heavily down his front, soaking into his clothes.

He lets out a muffled groan, but the ogre slams him down again, and his skull shattered with a wet crunch against the tree trunk: he flops down dead, trousers unbuttoned and soaked with his own fluids.

The ogre shan't mind the impropriety, though. Ogres aren't picky about their meals.

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43923556)

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	30. Alyon

The ride isn't hard. They mostly ride over long, flat plains of grass and through shallow valleys; there are no steep hills to pass over or around, and now they ride on for miles on end. It begins to rain as they cover more ground, and Arthur glances up towards the greying clouds. They don't look stormy, and the drizzle that wets his hair and Pennyflower's hide is neither too cold or too heavy to bear, but as they ride on the water soaks into their clothes, and Arthur can't help but be made irritable by it.

Dimming sunshine filters in from behind the clouds, and Arthur gestures for Elgar to join him in speeding his pace: they come towards the village Arthur had been seeking with the sun beginning to set, left with only twenty minutes or so in the sky.

Alyon is a much larger village than Wenk, populated by all sorts of half-blooded faeries, disgraced wizards and others who'd not do well under the law of a ruling power. The place is bustling with people who peer at Elgar and Arthur curiously, but without too much interest. Many of those that pass them by are obviously inhuman, fae-touched or with knife-pointed ears, and they walk quickly with glances towards the setting sun.

Out here, without the boundary wards of a ruling king, well.

Very dangerous things can wander a place like this after dark.

Arthur dismounts, glancing around the village centre when they reach it; it's a broad, circular plateau, a barely standing statue crumbling in its centre.

"Who do you think that was of?" Elgar asks, peering at it as he gets off his horse, and Arthur shrugs.

"It might have been one of the rulers, but it was probably some figure from town, in memoriam. In a village like this, you don't normally see statues of the monarch, so it's usually of someone of note from town. A particularly pretty, dead librarian, perhaps." Elgar stifles a little snigger, and Arthur scans around him. There are many shops beginning to bring in their wares and close their doors, but he can spy two taverns in sight.

"Well, sire," Elgar says softly, "The Darned Sock or the Elven Spire?"

"What a choice, my lad, what a choice." The Darned Sock is a cozy looking pub with golden candlelight flickering around from the thick, near-opaque windows, and from its second floor hangs a large, brass sign painted in magically glowing paints. The sock itself is pink and blue, striped, and the darned square at its heel is yellow. It's a sweet little place, really, and it would look at home in the middle of any town centre outside of lawless lands like these.

The Elven Spire is more obviously foreign: it's a tall building of shining black bricks and it lightly reflects the fleeing sunlight from its outer walls. Nothing like this would be built in a town in Gonthor, even with a high elven population. Its spire is perhaps on its third floor, and from it hangs a simple green flag with its name stitched into the fabric.

####  [Go into the Darned Sock.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924738)

####  [Go into the Elven Spire.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924981)


	31. The Darned Sock

Arthur turns in bed a few more times, feeling the chill of the room bite at his skin, worst of all at his toes and his fingers and Gods, he's not going to  _stand_ for this.

"Elgar," Arthur says, his voice cutting through the freezing air.

"Yes, sire?" Elgar asks, sounding honestly very, very sleepy.

"Come here."

"Sire?" He sounds mildly more awake and entirely more terrified, all nervous and shy, but Arthur has no patience for Elgar's ridiculousness.

"I'm cold. Get into bed with me." The order is clean and clear, and Elgar doesn't protest; he gets up and he clambers into bed, sliding himself up and against Arthur's body. He's shy, and worried about his propriety, but he's obviously as cold as Arthur is.

Arthur wraps himself around the other man, pressing his cheek against his chest, and he enjoys the beautiful heat radiating from his manservant's body.

This is the true benefit of having manservants with one on a trip like this. Soon enough he sleeps, curling right against the other man, and he sleeps  _very_  well indeed.

The morning brings warmth that seems to radiate from both the floor and walls, and Arthur groans as he comes awake with Elgar still beneath him.

"Sire?" Elgar asks, voice thick with sleep.

"Runes. In the walls, Elgar. I could have probably flicked them on somehow."

"Oh," Elgar says awkwardly, and Arthur pats his belly before moving to stand and dress. Arthur could perhaps say something to cheer him up, but doesn't much feel like doing so, and instead readies himself to make his way downstairs.

#### Eat breakfast, have a bath and then get ready to ride out.

 


	32. Ilya, Assassin Extraordinaire

Arthur sighs again and turns onto his belly, pressing his face hard into the pillow and closing his eyes as tightly as possible. He huffs out a soft noise and does his best to stay entirely still.

After all, the stiller he stays, the quicker he'll get to sleep.

It takes him a while, but eventually, it works. Even though it is fucking cold.

\---

For Ilya, elven assassin extraordinaire, it is a very good night indeed. Arthur of Gonthor has been a difficult mark to pursue: the prince is a fine warrior and she has been careful to ensure she could catch him entirely unawares, but all the  _time_  he's had horses or that pesky manservant to hand.

In order to ensure word gets back to the king of his murder, she is under orders to leave the manservant alive without having seen her, and tonight, those specific instructions are easy to achieve.

Sliding silently into the room through the window to its side, she creeps across the room. The manservant is curled in a tiny ball under his sheets, chest rising and falling, and the prince is sprawled on his belly with his face hidden.

Ilya slips forwards, holding her dagger out before her, and she nimbly slides it under the prince's neck, shifting the angle of the blade and dragging it hard over his skin.

She feels his windpipe break under the pressure of the blade, and thick, hot blood soaks into the pillows and the mattress beneath him. She watches the prince's eyes open wide as he chokes out a breathless noise, and Ilya smirks as she moves silently back towards the window.

She glances back to the manservant, still peacefully asleep in his little ball, and shakes her head.

The room is very chilly. She's surprised they were sleeping apart.

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924738)

 

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	33. The Darned Sock

"A room for the night, of course," beams the bearded woman, and then, "I'll just show you up to a room, and Darlen will tether your horses in the stable." Arthur lets Elgar deal with the money and the polite chatter, and focuses on climbing the stairs behind the both of them, enjoying both the sway of Elgar's arse and hers.

"Thank you, Arla," Elgar says with a polite nod of his head, and Arthur does his best not to roll his eyes. Elgar's oh-so-shy, unless he can be vaguely servile and overly focused on manners with some stranger, and then he's  _quite_  content.

"Good night,  _Arla,_ " Arthur says lightly, and he follows Elgar into the bedroom. The room is high-ceilinged and surprisingly chilly, and Arthur glances around the room, hoping for a fireplace or a runestone for heating, or...

There's nothing. Arthur suppresses the want to stamp his foot.

There are two beds with upsettingly thin looking blankets, and he undresses, putting his clothes over a chair. Elgar watches him for a second with a sort of wanting expression, and then he strips off his own clothes and shyly looks at his feet as he stumbles towards one bed.

Arthur reluctantly slides under the too-cold covers of the other, feeling his flesh break out into goosebumps as he shivers. He blows out the singular candle that had been waiting on the nightstand, and shivers a bit more in the dark.

A sliver of moonlight shines in through the window, illuminating Elgar's face as he looks to the other wall. Arthur sighs, and watches a slight cloud of his own breath rise up to the ceiling.

####  [Turn over and try to just go to sleep.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924789)

 

####  [Ask Elgar to come into bed.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924825)


	34. The Darned Sock

The Darned Sock is the cozy sort of tavern one would find in any little village in one of the Bright Kingdoms, warm and well-lit with woven blankets hung from the walls alongside display glasses and little statuettes.

Despite the pleasant, enticing crackle of the fire to the side of the room, the traditional comfort of the tables, chairs and décor, and the lay of different casks behind the bar, the place is all but empty. To the corner of the room, a book before her on the table, is a raven-haired woman with deep blue eyes, and she is the singular customer.

Arthur pauses as he and Elgar come into the room, looking at the glint of her golden-rimmed spectacles in the firelight, but then he turns away, making his way towards the bar and stepping up to it.

A man cleans glasses there as a woman organizes casks and bottles: the two of them turn as one to look at him, and Arthur is stopped short for a second. With proprietors like these, this is not the sort of tavern one would find in any  _city_  in the Bright Kingdoms.

The man is lithe, yellow-eyed with a soft, blue tinge to every inch of his skin. His hair is a deep, shining obsidian, his angelic features overwritten with an inhuman magnetism. She is broader, square-made and with a strong, square jaw, soft, green bristles covering her chin and cheeks: the hair on her head is longer and plaited over one of her shoulders, and her ears poke out from the locks of green.

They're pointed, like elven ears.

"Sire," Elgar says, sounding inappropriately alarmed, and Arthur elbows him hard in the side to keep him quiet.

"Good  _evening._ " The two of them smile, and Arthur feels it radiate from them. The  _magic._

In the cities, elves and humans live (mostly) peacefully side-by-side, but faeries are barely ever allowed into the inhabited parts of the countrysides. Faeries certainly never mix their bloodlines with elves or humans, and  _yet..._

Why, they're actually very good looking. He doesn't see why such marriages aren't more encouraged.

"Can we help you two gentlemen?" the bearded woman asks sweetly, and Arthur grins.

####  ["Yes, we'd like a room for the night."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924768)


	35. Gurgling

There is a sudden cool silence, and Arthur feels very much pleased with himself for affecting such a  _reaction_ , even though he's obviously upset the men around him.

They're only peasants, and in a Dimmed Kingdom, at that - it hardly matters what they think of him. Lips twitching, he makes to pull his way out of bed, but a broad hand settles strongly on his chest, stopping him from getting up.

"Do you want to repeat that, princeling?" Hart asks.

"What, didn't hear me the first time?" Arthur asks, facing the stony-faced elf with a grin on his face. "Surely you're not  _stupid?_  After a night like that, I'd think--" Arthur's continued, teasing response is choked off with a wet, breathy gurgle.

It's too quick for there to be any pain: the blade spikes directly through the back of his neck, just to the left of his spine, and splits the skin of his throat, the tip of the dagger meeting the air for a moment before it's drawn back.

He clutches at his throat, feeling pain rip through his windpipe and his neck, and he feels the hot wetness of his own blood.

Alright, perhaps that was stupid. Elves take honour and pride  _very_  seriously.

He falls forwards into a puddle of his own blood as the other elves get out of the bed, and he feels suddenly  _cold._  Gods. Bloody elves. He lets out a gurgling giggle, the agony of it tearing through him, and he loses consciousness.

"What was he laughing about?" Fallow asks, tilting his head.

Bloody elves, Arthur doesn't reply. Bloody  _me._

####  [Go back.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43924981)

 

####  [Return to start.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43922965)


	36. The Elven Spire

"Do you want to come and talk to the men with me?" Arthur asks, glancing sideways at Elgar, and Elgar shakes his head emphatically, his shy person positively mortified by the idea of so much  _smiling_  at some elven men, let alone playing cards with or fucking them. "Their intentions might be completely platonic," Arthur points out.

Elgar scowls at him, and Arthur laughs.

"Alright, take a room for the night and have our proprietor tether the horses in her stable. Spare no expense for yourself, Elgar, get yourself the warmest room in the house - we've gold enough."

Elgar opens his mouth to blurt out some modest protest or otherwise dull reply, and so Arthur cuts through the coming sentence to walk over to the elves and grin widely.

"Good evening, lads. My name is Arthur Gonthor."

"And for what reason does his highness grace us with his pretty presence?" asks an elf with deep brown skin and a low, mellifluous voice, his lips quirked into a knowing smirk.

"Does his highness' grace precede him?" Arthur asks sweetly, settling his hands on the back of one of the elves' chairs, and the speaker laughs.

"Indeed it does, sire. Dain recognized the heraldry on your breast." He nudges an elf with long, chestnut hair and deep, charcoal-black skin that's smooth as an opal's surface. Dain laughs, seemingly shy as he brushes his hair back from his face, and when he meets Arthur's eyes Arthur sees a lake that spans miles, nymphs dancing on its surface as elves stroll at its edge.

Arthur smiles slightly, and he feels the ache of Dain's nostalgia in his chest.

"And what are your names, gentlemen?"

"I'm Hart," says the first man, leaning back in his seat, and then says, "This is Leen and Fallow." Leen's skin is a very light tan, and his eyes are olive-green; Fallow's skin is as white as candlewax, but green scars span from his lips to his right eye, and trail down his neck.

He must notice Arthur's gaze, because he says, "I had a fungus sickness, when I was very young. It never much finds itself in the Bright Kingdoms, but here in the wilder lands it touches elven people and the Fae."

Looking properly now, Arthur can see the way the scarring had spanned outwards, zig-zagging in places and curling in others, just as fungus sprawls over tree trunks and old stones.

"It feeds on the magic, then?"

"You're not as dim as you're cabbage-looking, sire," Fallow says with a nod of his head, and Arthur laughs. No man would  _dare_  speak to him so in the lights of society, and it is a rather lovely change to find such cheek here. He glances back, watching Elgar climb the stairs in the proprietor's stead, finding his way to his room for the night.

"Now, lads," Arthur says, "Might I enjoy your company this evening?"

"Oh, not as much as we'll enjoy yours, I'd wager," says Leen in a reedy voice like a morning breeze, and grins. "Join us in our room upstairs."

Arthur widens his eyes, as if the invitation hadn't been completely expected and  _welcomed._  "Why, gentleman," he says softly, with a coquettish flutter of his eyelashes that affects them all to laugh. "Do lead the way."

\---

Arthur enjoys the feeling of four pairs of hands pulling at his clothes, lets the elves draw off his shirt, his trousers, his boots. He grabs Dain by the collar, pulling him close and kissing him as Hart and Leen pull away his underwear, dropping onto one of the beds in the room with Dain underneath him.

Dain shivers, tickled, as Arthur lets his fingers dance up and underneath the elf's shirt, and Arthur chuckles against his neck as he kisses his jaw. Dain's hands move to Arthur's hips, but Arthur grabs at his wrists, pinning the both of them above his head, and Dain's wide eyes make him chuckle.

"Ah ah ah, sire," murmurs Hart against Arthur's shoulder, and then he pulls him back and away from Dain, carding a hand in his hair and kissing Arthur himself. Arthur leans into the taller man, trying not to laugh into his lips as Fallow and Leen's fingers dance over his skin. Arthur is distracted, but not so distracted that he can't cant his hips back at the slick finger tips that press between his buttocks, inviting Fallow or Leen, whichever, to press into him.

Hart pulls back from the kiss, cupping both of Arthur's cheeks as two fingers, and then three, are pressed into him, scissoring themselves and stretching Arthur a little bit wider. Arthur breathes in, eyes fluttering closed for a second, and he hears Hart's deep, musical voice laugh.

"I'm going to bind your eyes," Hart says, and Arthur nods his agreement, tipping back his head and letting Hart tie a green ribbon around his head. The fingers draw back, and Arthur resents the emptiness, but he allows Hart to lead him and tip him forwards, leaving him spread over a small, circular table.

The polished wood is cool under his belly, and Arthur hisses a little, arching himself away from it before letting his naked form drop again. "We're going to fuck you 'til you can't stand, princeling," murmurs Fallow as two fingers draw teasingly over Arthur's neck.

"So long as I can ride," Arthur says amiably, and he opens his mouth to say something else when a cock is suddenly pressed into him. It's slick with oil, but Arthur still lets out a sharp whine at the sudden press of it, pushing him open and forcing the breath out of him. There's laughter, and the elf begins to thrust, leaving Arthur's cock to sway in the air beside the table, lost without stimulation. Before he can complain, another member begs entrance at his lips, and who is he to refuse so charming a distraction?

Arthur opens his mouth, feeling the slightly musty, sweet taste of elven cock on his tongue; he envelops it as best he can in the wetness of his mouth, drawing the flat of his tongue over the cock's edge and head, doing his best to relax his throat and keep his teeth out of the way: the elf behind him has a thick girth and a slight curve to his cock, and every push of his hips makes Arthur  _flutter_  inside.

He's speared between the two of them, blind and entirely unable to escape, even if he wanted to.

The idea is just  _delicious._

He does his best to take the cock in his mouth further inside him, relaxing his throat and doing his best not to choke as he leans his head greedily forwards, and victory is his when he feels it: the elf's cock pulses in place, and he feels the wetness in his mouth, the obscene sweetness of it.

Arthur grasps helplessly at the table as the man in front of him draws away and the one behind him speeds his pace: Arthur groans, pressing his face into his arm and spreading his legs, trying to press himself back into the elf behind him.

He feels the cock throb and spurt inside of him, and as soon as the one elf draws away the next presses inside of him. Arthur lets pleasure wash over him as hands play over his body, drawing teasingly over his cock under the table and as the next elf fucks him.

The anonymity is obscenely exciting, when he has no idea whose prick is inside him, whose hands are on him - more than those elves he'd met might well involve themselves, and without them talking, how would he ever know?

The second elf finishes and the third fucks him full, and this one grasps tightly around his cock, twisting his hand around Arthur and making him grunt. Arthur comes just before the man behind him, and when he's drawn up from the table and the blindfold is pulled away from his eyes, Arthur laughs a little, leaning heavily on Dain beside him.

It's just the cherry on his hedonistic cake to drop into bed to sleep for the night with the four elves around him.

\---

Arthur groans as he wakes himself up, shifting and flopping his head onto the scarred thigh of Fallow beside him. The four of them are already awake, each of them smirking down at him; Leen absently strokes Arthur's hair, and Arthur is more than satisfied.

"Good morning," Arthur says. He considers what best to say. It's best to be more  _modest_  with elves, but Arthur isn't an especially modest man by nature.

####  ["I'm surprised any of you could get it up for me. I've heard elves can be terrible lovers, but I was certainly delightedly surprised."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43925101)

#### "That was a  _wonderful_  evening in. It will be a shame to leave you."


	37. The Elven Spire

The Elven Spire has a well-embellished central room, silken green cloths hanging from the sides of the room in a shimmering, tent-like ceiling covering. A fire crackles in an enchanted bowl in the centre of the room, carved of wood and putting heat all about them.

Arthur puts his hand out, feeling the heat come pleasantly from the bowl where it hovers four feet above the ground, and a slight smile comes to his face.

Settled by a round table near the bar is a pale woman he expects is the proprietor with big, brown eyes and plump, red lips, strangely lacking in the expected pointed ears. She glances almost furtively in Arthur and Elgar's direction, as if looking for too long would be somehow improper, and Arthur does his best to ignore her fleeting looks.

The group of men to the side of the room make no move at all to hide the way they stare at Elgar and Arthur both: there are five of them, elves with the broad shoulders and calloused hands of lumber workers. Elves are taller than humans are, as a rule, and they tend to emit a softly magnetic magic.

Elgar looks down at the floor, mumbling something inane about their eyes, but Arthur meets the gazes without fear.

Elves do not digest magic, as faeries and dryads do, but it flows through their veins as easily as their blood does, and looking into an elf's eyes always offers a glimpse of where they've come from. Elven glances easily give a human a homesickness for a place they've never been, but Arthur doesn't mind the quiet pangs - he is in the business of enjoying strange sensations, and this is one of the strangest.

"Why are they looking at us like that?" Elgar whispers, perhaps referring to their rather  _hungry_  gazes. 

"Why, I expect they want to fuck us senseless, Elgar. Wouldn't you?" Elgar coughs gracelessly into his own arm, and Arthur chuckles.

#### Say, "Excuse me, we'd like two rooms for the night," to the proprietor.

####  [Go talk with the men to the side of the room.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532021/chapters/43925074)


End file.
